


Amateur

by Sue_Snell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Fondling, Handcuffs, Interrogation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7130702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sue_Snell/pseuds/Sue_Snell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s head hurt, he didn’t know where he was, and he was tied to a chair. Man, he wished waking up like this wasn’t such a familiar sensation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amateur

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt at the SPN kinkmeme...
> 
> http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/106950.html?thread=40510406#t40510406
> 
> ...and the first fic in my "Transfer All my Anon Kinkmeme Shit to AO3" effort. Knowing me it'll take months to finish, but that statement says more about my laziness than it does about the amount of anon fic I've written.

Oh. Great. This again.

Dean’s head hurt, he didn’t know where he was, and he was tied to a chair. Man, he wished waking up like this wasn’t such a familiar sensation. He got the feeling he was being watched, so he kept his eyes closed and pretended to still be out of it as he took stock of the situation.

His ankles were bound to the chair’s legs with rope, too tight to wiggle out of, definitely, but not painfully tight, at least. Nice of them. The chair was one of those wooden kitchen chairs with bars connecting the seat to the top part of the back. His captor had cuffed his hands behind the back of the chair, threading the chain around one of those bars to further secure him to it. The weight of his cellphone in his pocket told him they hadn’t bothered to frisk him before tying him up. Amateur. Sam should have no trouble kicking their ass once he realized—actually, no. Sam was crashing on Garth’s boat for the next few nights, checking up on Kevin, hopefully making sure the poor kid didn’t burn out on them. Dean had come out here alone. Dammit.

Okay, fine, he could handle this one himself, then. He cracked his eyes open a fraction to get his first look at his surroundings. He seemed to be in the living room of an old, dusty house with no lights on and not much in the way of furniture. Abandoned, probably. So yelling probably wouldn’t help, not that he wanted to get innocent civvies involved anyway. A nearby window (with the blinds drawn) let in enough pale, early morning light to see by. In one corner of the room there was a sleeping bag, a large backpack, and the remains of some MREs. Was his captor squatting here? The weather was nice enough for it. Dean relaxed a bit. The sleeping bag ruled out demons, angels, and the majority of monsters he could name, and the rations ruled out the rest. His captor must be human. Not necessarily good news, sure, but at least it eliminated a lot of worst case scenarios.

“You’re up.”

The voice startled Dean and—since the jig was up anyway—he opened his eyes the rest of the way to spot the lanky figure lurking in a shadowy corner of the room next to a doorway. To complete his mental map of the room, he took a quick look over his shoulder to see his back was a couple feet away from the wall. Not much going on back there. He whipped his head back around as his captor stepped out of the shadows.

Tall, fit, Asian. Younger than him, but not by much. And kinda familiar, but why? Wait a minute... Dean squinted at the man’s wary face, mentally adding a pair of glasses with thick, black frames. Yep. _Very_ Clark Kent, especially with the hair. They’d met.

“Hey,” said Dean, “You’re that reporter, aren’t you? Well.” He lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side. “‘Reporter.’” The scare quotes were heavily implied, even though his hands weren’t free to make them. “Is your name really Alec Holland?”

“Is _your_ name really Angus Young, ‘Agent’?” Alec(?)’s hands _were_ free to make scare quotes.

“Nah,” Dean replied with a friendly smile, “It’s Dean.”

“...Jeff.”

So friendly worked on Jeff. Good to know.

“How long you been in the huntin’ business, Jeff?” Dean’s guess was not long.

“None of your business.”

True, but that was a real defensive tone, and coupled with the light flush in Jeff’s cheeks it pretty much confirmed Dean’s suspicions.

“Alright,” said Dean, “But here’s a little pro-tip: _Generally_ it’s the monsters you wanna knock out and tie up, not other hunters.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Jeff, “So if you’re giving out pro-tips, does that make you a pro?”

“Well, this ain’t my first rodeo.”

“Figured, when I saw the fake badge.”

“You know how to spot a fake?”

“More like I wondered why the hell the FBI would care about some lunatic robbing a blood drive.”

“Funny, _I_ was wondering what kind of newspaper would do full coverage of something that dumb.” That was a lie. He hadn’t given Jeff’s cover a second thought at the time. Slow news days happen and he and Sammy wouldn’t find half their cases if it weren’t for “News of the Weird” fluff pieces about exactly this kind of thing. He might’ve forgotten “Alec” altogether by now if he hadn’t looked so cute in those geek glasses. He definitely wasn’t hard on the eyes without the specs either...

“Sure you were,” said Jeff. He crossed the room to stand closer to Dean, really loom over him. Dean grinned up at him gamely. Maybe he was supposed to be intimidated (and maybe he was, a _little_ ) but he was too busy noticing how much nicer the view was up close.

“So,” said Jeff coolly, “You wanna tell me about your vampire friend?”

Dean kept smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

“Whoa,” he said, “Just like that? I thought I’d get more foreplay before we got down to business.”

“What can I say?” said Jeff with a shrug and a smirk (and yet a hint of returning blush, funnily enough), “You get me so excited I just can’t wait.”

Dean chuckled.

“And what, I’m supposed to just give it up to the first guy who asks nicely? I’m not _that_ easy. You gotta work for it.”

“Seriously, though,” said Jeff, “What the hell? When you watched the security footage yesterday I could tell you recognized the guy. I knew you were a hunter, so I figured you had history with him, that there was some kind of vendetta going on there, but then you just fuck off to the bar to get wasted like the job’s over?”

“The job _was_ over,” said Dean, “You’re right, I know the guy, and he doesn’t kill humans, okay? Why do you think he was robbing a blood drive in the first place?”

“He’s a _vampire_ ,” Jeff protested, “Just because he picked up some takeout doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how to hunt.”

Dean sighed. He wasn’t having this argument again. As if trying to explain Benny to Sam hadn’t been enough of a pain in the ass so far. If Jeff wanted to be pig-headed about it too, fine. Dean doubted he had the chops to catch Benny anyway. Best to just sit back and enjoy the show. At least Jeff’s pissed-off face was weirdly hot. Something about the way his nose wrinkled.

“Do you know where he is now?” Jeff asked.

“Nope.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Tell me where he is.”

“Dunno.”

“ _Tell me_ where he is.”

“Long gone, probably.”

“ _Tell me where he is_.”

“How long you been in the interrogatin’ business, Jeff?”

“ _Look_ , man.” Jeff punctuated this by bracing one hand on the wall, grabbing the back of Dean’s chair with the other, and roughly tilting him backwards at a precarious angle. Dean’s stomach lurched at the sudden upheaval and he reflexively jerked against his restraints. Jeff had startled the hell out of him, but the spontaneous flood of adrenaline in his veins wasn’t entirely unpleasant. In fact, once he’d had a second to recover, he sort of wanted Jeff to set him down and do it again.

Bringing their faces close, Jeff whispered, “This isn’t a fucking game.”

Dean snorted. Yes, it “fucking” was. He’d been in this chair enough times to know warm-up intimidation from I-don’t-really-wanna-try-torture-so-please-just-talk-now intimidation.

“I’m _serious_ ,” Jeff growled. He let go of Dean’s chair and Dean got his wish for another stomach-flipping rush of adrenaline as he tilted back another inch or so, Jeff grabbing on again in time to keep him from cracking his head on the wall. Whatever look Dean had on his face then seemed to cheer Jeff up. Maybe he looked legitimately scared. His heart _was_ pounding a mile minute, and he felt a thin sheen of sweat coating his flushed skin. With his blood pumping like that he was getting warm all over, hyper-aware of the way his clothes clung to his skin and the ropes snugly held his legs in place and the cuffs dug into his wrists when he reflexively pulled against them... Damn. This scene was kind of _really_ doing it for him. And if the smile threatening to crack Jeff’s poker face was anything to go by, Dean wasn’t the only one enjoying himself...

After Jeff stared him down expectantly for several seconds, Dean put in, “Hey, ‘seriously,’ I don’t know, okay?” His voice came out breathier than he expected; his heartbeat was still going crazy.

Jeff righted the chair with a grunt, straightened up, and crossed his arms.

“Why should I believe you?”

Dean shrugged, wincing at the ache this position put in his shoulders.

“I mean,” said Jeff, bending down to bring their faces level, “You told me yourself you’re not ‘easy,’ that I’d have to ‘work for it...’” He reached out and slipped a couple of fingers into Dean’s waistband, gave a little tug.

Dean licked his lips. Interesting angle, Jeff. He was still pretty sure the guy was all bark and no bite, but now he halfway hoped he was wrong.

“You _sure_ you don’t know?”

“...yeah,” Dean whispered.

That was when Jeff grabbed his crotch. He had _not_ been expecting that, but, he guessed he couldn’t complain either: In a matter of seconds he went hard in Jeff’s hand. Jeff looked pretty shocked, but by this point Dean was mostly surprised it’d managed to stay down as long it did.

Jeff’s eyebrows drew together as he stared down at the bulge in Dean’s pants. The bulge he had yet to remove his hand from. Tilting his head curiously—as if deeming this a matter in need of freaking investigation—he brought his other hand up to undo Dean’s button. Dean rolled his eyes.

“It ain’t a gun in my pocket, Jeff,” he said as Jeff carefully pulled his zipper down, “I really am happy to see you.”

“No kidding...” Jeff muttered as he pulled Dean’s underwear out of the way and Little Dean sprang free.

Glancing down with a smirk, Dean asked, “Now is that a gun in _your_ pocket, or...?” There was that blush again, but Jeff wasn’t about to back down.

“You should be nicer to me,” he said, wrapping a firm hand around Dean, “If you piss me off, it could end nasty for you.”

“Yeah?” said Dean.

Jeff gave him little a tug, just a bit rough. Half friendly, half threatening, but a hundred percent awesome in Dean’s book. His legs flexed against the ropes as his body tried to thrust into Jeff’s touch.

“Yeah,” said Jeff, voice husky.

Judging by the bulge in his pants, the other hunter was at least as hard as he was now. Nice. Dean was brainstorming things to say to get Jeff to “threaten” him some more when Jeff abruptly pulled his hand away, stood up, and stepped back. He looked nervous all of a sudden, and maybe... guilty? So _now_ he was gonna be shy? Or was he—

Dean’s train of thought was suddenly derailed by the opening bars of “Smoke on the Water.” Jeff jumped in surprise, but a split second later his hand flew to his pocket and he pulled out his phone to see who was calling. Dean was forced to assume the caller ID read “MONSIEUR COCKBLOCKER” when Jeff not only answered, but held up one finger—yeah, the freaking “one second” signal—and ducked out of the room to talk about God-knows-what in hushed French. Must be an interesting story there, but it wasn’t like he could turn on subtitles to read it. Since it was clear quietly eavesdropping wouldn’t teach him anything, Dean shrugged, shifted his weight, and shimmied a hand into one of his back pockets. Leaving the prisoner unattended, _such_ a freaking amateur...

When Jeff returned Dean was just the way he left him, except not quite as hard. Hey, getting thrown on the back burner hurts, and it looked like Jeff’s bulge hadn’t enjoyed the wait either.

“So what now?” Dean asked.

Jeff stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Look,” he said, “I... I’m not the kind of guy that—I’m not keeping you here to—”

“Stop right there, man,” said Dean.

“What?”

“You think you’re ‘keeping’ me here?” Dean pulled his hands out from behind him, unlocked handcuffs dangling from one finger. Jeff’s shoulders slumped at the sight. Dean could’ve easily gotten the knots at his ankles too in the time Jeff had given him, but he hadn’t bothered. Had Jeff caught that detail yet? Dean took a moment to stretch and roll the ache out of his shoulders, then, making sure he caught Jeff’s eye first, he put both hands back behind the chair.

“So,” said Dean, audibly clicking the cuffs back onto his wrists, “What now?”

The bulge in Jeff’s pants was back to full strength and the look in his eyes brought Little Dean back to attention too. Maybe Jeff was green when it came to hunting and interrogation, but Dean got the feeling that when it came to this, they _both_ knew what they were doing.


End file.
